


Dying for Attention

by zsomeone



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Alternate Universe, Murder, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-16
Updated: 2012-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-16 23:25:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3506618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zsomeone/pseuds/zsomeone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I’ve had this one in my head for a long time and kind of didn’t want to write it, but it never went away...<br/>AU where Toki has never left Norway or ever been in a band, and his deranged obsession with Skwisgaar.  It takes place not long after Dethklok has become huge, they’re all still quite young.  I wrote it kind of weird, again.<br/>Based on Warrant’s <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=erppLok5PnQ">Andy Warhol was Right</a>, a haunting little song I’ve always liked.<br/>Warnings: Psychotic jealousy, murder, character death</p><p>I suggest you listen to the song first, it reads <i>way</i> if you've actually heard it.<br/>I cut all the other songfics, but this one I think it pretty good so I kept it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dying for Attention

_Twisted little daydreams,_  
_Memories with pain_  
_Locking me behind the closet door_  
_I will be a good boy_  
_Promise I won't run_  
_Sit quiet in my room_  
_Playing with my toy gun_

In this room time stood still. He was nearly grown now, so why did he so often still feel like a little boy, never allowed to become a man? Hopeless dreams turned inward, becoming poison in his soul, festering.

They had flown to the top of the charts only a few years before, drawing his attention like no others had managed. Eating into his everyday thoughts.

For the thousandth time, he looked at the flier in his hand. Creased and wrinkled from being folded and shoved in his pocket, only one face still clear and unlined. _His_ face, so superior that he’d missed every fold in the paper.

The date of the concert was his eighteenth birthday. He’d been given a sign.

_Now I'm older but the memories_  
_Still eat me like disease_  
_Alone and in the darkness_  
_Watching you on my tv_  
_Why did God make you so famous_  
_When he only spit on me_

He was from Sweden, so close. It could have been him instead, _should_ have been him instead. Didn’t he deserve it? Apparently God didn’t think so, didn’t think he deserved a damn thing, _ever_.

He watched. The concerts, the news, everything he could find. Watched alone, always alone. Those faces, _his_ face, staring from every magazine cover, glossy and slick.

Admiration degraded into longing, twisting upon itself and growing black. IT WASN’T FAIR. 

_I want to bathe in your light_  
_I want to be on the news_  
_If I take your life_  
_It's nothing personal_  
_Just a boy and his toy gun_  
_Dying for attention_

He _had_ to go, to be close to _him_. To see that brilliance light up everything around him. He knew how it would end, but that was only fitting.

His father hadn’t missed the gun, he may have even forgotten he’d ever owned one. Just a pistol, but it made big holes in things. Bullets were cheap, and he had practiced. He was very good.

They would all see him now, the whole world would know his name.

_Sitting on the steps_  
_The sun is sinking low_  
_The world gets very quiet_  
_As the street lamps start to glow_  
_Step out and I raise my gun_  
_Time just seems to slow_

Someone had taped a poster to the inside of a display window, their faces watched him from behind the glass where he couldn’t reach them. Why had he walked this way? Everything was closed, no one around.

He couldn’t stop staring at _his_ face, life sized and sneering through the protective glass.

Well, no one was a round... He pulled out the pistol, aiming at _his_ forehead.

_FOR A MOMENT I CAN SEE MYSELF_  
_TRAPPED IN YOUR REFLECTION_  
_I’M ANGRY AND I’M LONELY_  
_AND I’M DYING FOR ATTENTION_

The street light flickered, and he realized his own reflection was superimposed over _his_ , pale and ghostly in comparism. Even in _this_ form...

The shot shattered the window, destroying his reflection as the shards tore the poster to bits, but not before he saw that his aim had been true.

The street was still empty, but it would be a bad idea to linger. He hurried away.

He would do it, he was actually going to do it. Of course there would be security, but he knew the area and knew he could get around them. Then all he had to do was get close enough to the stage. He wanted _him_ to know, to see.

Only a few days, this would be his only birthday to ever matter...

*****

He’d evaded security just as he knew he would. Inside, lost in the crowd, edging closer, shoved around. He wasn’t above using his elbows to help negotiate his way.

Finally, to the edge of the stage. To the feet of this hated idol.

“SKWISGAAR!” For the very first time he said the name out loud, screaming it. 

And their eyes met and held.

_I want to bathe in your light_  
_I want to be on the news_  
_If I take your life_  
_It's nothing personal_  
_Just a boy and his toy gun_  
_Dying for attention_

This was his moment, his only chance to be _something_. Staring into those eyes, he felt his hate boil up and overflow, the unfairness of it all was more than he could bear. At that moment no one else existed, nothing else existed, just the two of them balanced at the extremes in a seething sea.

There was no turning back now.

The snipers were sighting on him even as he raised his gun, but he had the satisfaction of seeing those eyes widen as his bullet hit home, just before they all cut him down.

Right where he’d aimed, almost between the eyes, and they fell together. Now everyone would know his name, forever.

_Dying for attention._

 

 


End file.
